Past Imperfect
John Matthews
E-media books
From the Covers:
Two Boys.
One Murder.
Sometimes justice takes more than a lifetime.
A Car accident in California, a deadly assault in Provence, and two boys thirty years apart are left fighting for their lives.
Dominic Fornier is the French detective who finds himself at the heart of a landmark case spanning three decades and two continents. An investigation which takes him from a sleepy rural village to the corridors of power, a simple provincial case which becomes one of the largest and most important in criminal history. The case of a lifetime, but one that seems impossible to win…
Fornier’s only hope is to prove the link between two lives thirty years apart… the final missing key.
A compulsive journey through forensic, medical and psychiatric evidence between France, America and London; a breathless paper-chase of clues extracted from a young boy’s psyche; revenge, blackmail, a trail of intrigue and blood behind a trial that captures a nation… and a desperate race against time against a killer who will stop at nothing to bury his past.
For Sean
And for my family close at heart
Past Imperfect – John Matthews
As well as being a novelist, John Matthews is an experienced journalist, editor and publishing consultant, though after the success of Past Imperfect, which became an international bestseller. He has devoted most of his time to writing novels. In 2004, The Times of London compiled a list of top ten all-rime best legal thrillers which included Past Imperfect.
His other novels are: Basikasingo, Crescents of the Moon, The Last Witness, The Second Amendment, The Shadow Chaser, Ascension Day and (under the name of John Kilgallon) The Prophecy. He lives in Surrey with his wife and son.
Press reviews for Past Imperfect:
'Matthews maintains the suspense... an engrossing odyssey into the seamy side of a world that is so near, yet sometimes seems so far. Compulsive reading.'
- The Times
'Impressive... strong characterization and a relentless race against time to avert the worst carry the reader along the thick pages of this psychological and legal thriller with a difference.'
- Time Out
'Intriguing thriller (with a) ...dogged and sexy French detective. Treat yourself.'
- Prima
'One of the most compelling novels I've read... an ambitious and big novel which will keep you enthralled to its last page.'
- Cork Examiner
'A classy, well-written and unusual thriller.'
- Yorkshire Post
'Matthews delivers one of the best debut thrillers in years, brave, ambitious and remorselessly entertaining. Past Imperfect is a stormer.'
- Dublin Evening Herald
PROLOGUE
Provence, June, 1995
The three figures walked along the rough track alongside the wheat field. Two men and a boy of eleven.
The older of the men, Dominic Fornier, was in his late fifties. A stocky figure just short of six foot with dark brown hair cropped short and almost totally grey at the sides. Another twenty metres ahead would be the best vantage point, he thought, his eyes scanning the broad expanse of the wheat field. Soft brown eyes with a faint slant at the corner. A slant that somehow made them sharper: knowing eyes, perceptive eyes. Eyes that had seen too much.
The younger man, Stuart Capel, was an inch shorter and slim with light brown almost blonde hair. Mid-thirties, the first faint worry lines showed more prominently as he squinted against the sun and the glare of the bleached white field. Dominic could see the slight resemblance between Stuart and the young boy; though the boy's hair was a shade lighter and a few freckles showed across his nose and cheeks. Fresh faced, happy, but Dominic could still sense the slight barrier, a distance and detachment in the boy's eyes that betrayed the pain and scars of the past months.
As they shuffled to a stop, Stuart asked: 'So is this where it happened?'
'Yes, more or less.' Dominic pointed. 'About five metres ahead on the left.'
Stuart looked at the area of wheat, and it told him nothing. Barely a foot high after being cut down to stubble in the early summer, it was silent, eerie. No hint of the events which now brought them to this spot. What had he expected? He looked across, at young eyes and a distant look that now he knew so well; but there was no glimmer of recognition. As usual, little or nothing while the boy was awake. Probably now even the ghostly shadows finally faded from the edges of his dreams. Acceptance. Stuart wondered.
Six months? It seemed far longer as Stuart's mind flicked through the nightmare odyssey which had finally led them here today. And now the with the trial, so much would hinge on the events of the next days and weeks. Is that what he'd hoped for by asking Dominic Fornier to bring them out here: a final closing of the book, a laying to rest of the ghosts in both their minds?
To the right of the lane were pine trees and thick bushes clinging to an embankment which dipped down towards the small river tributary thirty yards away. Stuart could hear its faint babbling above the gentle wind that played across the field.
He reminded himself that whatever pain and anguish he'd felt, for Dominic Fornier it must have been much worse. The case had plagued Fornier for over thirty years. From a young gendarme to a Chief Inspector, from a provincial case to now one of the largest and most intriguing in French legal history. 'The trial of the decade,' Le Monde had apparently headlined it. And equally it had ripped apart Fornier's own family life.
Dominic lifted his eyes from the field and into the distance, towards the village of Taragnon. Blood patches dried brown against the bleached sheaves. The small face swollen and disfigured. Dominic shuddered. The images were still stark and horrific all these years later.
The field and the view had remained constant, thought Dominic, but everything else had changed. Everything. How many times had he stood in this same field the past thirty years? Searching for clues and the missing pieces of his own life. One and the same. The last time he'd visited in the Spring just past, he'd cried: cried for the lost years, cried for the family and loved ones long departed, cried for his own and Taragnon's lost innocence. One and the same. Cried and cried until there was nothing left inside.
For a moment he thought he could hear the goat's bells again. But as he strained his hearing above the soft sway of the wind across the field, he realized that it was the distant church bells of Bauriac, calling morning prayers... the many services through the years: christenings, marriages... funerals...
Dominic bit his lip. He could feel the tears welling again with the memories, and turned slightly from Stuart and the boy as he scanned the silent panorama of fields and the rich green Provence hills beyond. And as the pain of the images became too much, he closed his eyes and muttered silently under his breath, 'Oh God, please forgive me.'
ONE
California, December, 1994
Fields of gold. Burnished wheat under the hot sun.
Eyran could feel the warm rush of air against his body as he ran through the sheaves, thrilling to the feeling of speed as they passed in a blur, springing back and lashing lightly at his legs and thighs. It was England. He knew instinctively, even though there were no guideposts in the dream from which he could be sure. The field where he used to play back in England was on a hill, a slow incline which led down to a small copse of trees with some of his favourite hiding places. Another wheat field rose beyond, linking in turn to fields of cabbages, maize and barley. A colourful and lazy patchwork of green and gold stretching towards the horizon.
But the field in the dream was flat, and Eyran found himself running through frantically looking for those all so f
amiliar landmarks. The hollowed tree in the copse where he had built a camp, the small brook that ran into the copse from Broadhurst Farm – where Sarah was on some days with her labrador. The field stretching out before him remained obstinately flat, no matter how fast he ran and how many sheaves he pushed past. The line of the blue horizon above the gold stayed the same. Though he knew somehow that if he kept running, the scene would change, he would see that all so familiar incline towards the copse, and he picked up the pace, a tireless energy driving him on. The contours changed suddenly, he could see what looked like the brow of a hill just ahead. But the position of the sun was also different, shining straight into his eyes and moving closer, closer - blotting out the hill ahead, then the horizon. Fading the golden wheat to stark white and searing his eyes as it became one blinding blanket of brightness.
Eyran awoke abruptly as the light hurt his eyes. Looking from the car window, he could see the car lights shining at them from one side start to swing away, taking a left at the four way junction. He didn't recognize any landmarks, though he knew they must have driven some way since leaving their friends in Ventura. He heard his father Jeremy mutter something about the junction they should take for joining highway 5 for Oceanside and San Diego, then the crinkling of paper as his mother in the front passenger seat tried vainly to unfold a large map to the right place. They slowed slightly as his father looked over intermittently at the map.
'Is it junction 3 for Anaheim and Santa Ana, can you see?' Jeremy asked. 'Maybe I should stop'.
'Maybe you should. I'm no good with these things.' Allison half turned towards the back seat. 'I think Eyran is awake in any case. He's got school tomorrow, it would be good if he slept some more.' Allison turned and gently stroked Eyran's brow.
Eyran slowly closed his eyes again under the soothing touch. But as his mother's hand moved away and he realized she was looking ahead again, his eyes instinctively opened to stare at the back of her head, focusing on her golden blonde hair until it became almost a blur. Willing himself back into the warmth of the wheat field and the dream.
Allison noticed Jeremy gripping the steering wheel hard as he talked about a problem case at work. His eyes blinked as they adjusted to the fast dying dusk light. Signs now for Carlsbad and Escondido.
She stole a glance back at Eyran. He was asleep again, but she saw now that his brow was sweating, the neck of his shirt damp. She pulled the blanket covering him lower down to his waist. Early December and the weather was still mild, temperatures in the late sixties, early seventies. Two weeks to school breaking up, with the trip to England to see Stuart and Amanda only days after. Part of her mind was already planning: how many days she should arrange for Helena to visit during their three weeks away, fresh food left in the fridge, clothes, packing, what woollens and coats to take.
‘We should be back within an hour,’ Jeremy said. ‘Shall I give Helena a call on my mobile?’
‘Up to you. She’s preparing something, but that’s only going to make us forty minutes earlier than we said.’
Jeremy looked over as a large double trailer truck sped by, and checked his speed: 57 mph. The truck must be touching seventy. He shook his head briefly.
He didn't notice the motorbike change lanes without warning ahead of the truck, nor the sudden swerve the driver made in the cabin to miss the bike. The first thing he noticed was the lazy snake like undulation at the back of the trailer, twisting abruptly at an angle and into a jack-knife which finally pulled it away from the cabin.
There was a suspended moment as it happened. As if in one blink everything was still: the road, the trees, the roadside signs and hoardings, the grey dusk sky; the landscape rolling past suddenly frozen. And then in the next blink the trailer was rushing towards him.
Jeremy braked hard and turned the wheel sharply away - but the suddenness with which the trailer flew at them made him gasp out loud. 'Oh... Jeez!' He braked harder, wrenching the wheel frantically away from the large grey steel block floated inexorably upon them, filling the windscreen and his view as it scythed through the front of the Jeep.
He heard Allison scream as the Jeep tilted sharply with the impact, and felt something jam hard into his stomach and ribs, pushing the air from his body as the windscreen exploded and shards of glass flew past them like blizzard snowdrops. Numbness more than pain hit him as the engine block was shunted back, severing his right leg just below the knee joint, and the first two rolls of the Jeep became a spinning confusion of sky, road, grass verge. Then darkness.
He remembered awaking once later. He could hear voices, though they were muffled and indistinct. When he tried to focus, the people seemed to be far away, though he could see clearly the arm of a man leaning over and touching his body. He found it hard to breathe, as if he was gargling and choking on warm water, and a jarring pain gripped his stomach and one leg. He must have lay there for some while, at times almost succumbing to the welcome release of the darkness, but knowing somehow that the pain was his only tangible link with consciousness and life.
He mouthed the word 'Eyran', but the man by his side didn't respond, nor could Jeremy in fact hear his own voice.
As finally they lifted his body, the lights twisting and spinning briefly to one side and away, the voices faded and he drifted back into the darkness.
Stuart Capel looked at his watch: 10.40 pm. - 2.40 pm in California. When he tried his brother Jeremy's number earlier it was on the answer-phone, so he'd made a note to call again in the afternoon.
Only two or three weeks to go and so much to plan. He hadn't seen Jeremy and his family for almost two years. He had ten days off work over Christmas while they were over, but the problem was he couldn't remember if it was the 16th or 23rd when they arrived. All so precise Jeremy, phoning him almost a month ago, going painstakingly through flight numbers, dates and times. Somehow he'd ended up with the flight number and the time on his phone pad, but not the date. The problem was, the same flight number left at the same time each week.
If he had to ask Jeremy again, it would probably provoke a comment. A short snub that said it all: I'm organized and you're not, I'm successful because I plan carefully, you've suffered in business because you don't. All so precise Jeremy. Each step of his life carefully mapped out and planned. From University at Cambridge, through London Chambers, then re-taking exams in the US and six months in Boston as a stepping stone to a San Diego law firm.
Stuart's life and career had been in almost complete contrast. A massive rise in the eighties in design work for print media, then the slump. Two partnership break ups followed and he was almost bust by the late eighties, only crawling his way out the last few years. Methodical planning had never worked for Stuart, and nearly all of his arguments with Jeremy revolved around the same thing: Jeremy trying to suggest some well staged plan, Stuart telling him at every turn why it wouldn't work, what would probably arise to fuck it up, and finally they'd reach the subject of Eyran.
Stuart would strike back by complaining that Jeremy was trying to structure Eyran's life too carefully, the boy was being stifled. He sensed a kindred spirit in Eyran that was somehow lost on Jeremy, a curiosity and thirst for life that Jeremy so often quelled by trying to map out his son’s life to finite extremes. Jeremy loved Eyran, but had little grasp how important it was to allow the child some freedom. Some choice.
The last get together almost two years ago, Stuart had taken his family out to California. He’d put his foot in it by mentioning some of Eyran's old friends in England. Could Eyran write them a postcard or perhaps get them a small memento from San Diego zoo? Jeremy had shot him a dark look, then explained later that they'd had problems with Eyran being homesick and missing his English friends. Only in the last six months had he settled in more and not mentioned them.
Later in the same holiday, Jeremy had poured cold water on Stuart's plans to expand into multi-media production, and they'd had more words. Of course there were risks, Stuart explained. Anything that depended on creativ
e input, market forces and an unpredictable general public was a risk. As usual, Jeremy was blinkered; Stuart might as well try and explain Picasso to a plumber.
Stuart made a mental note: Eyran's friends in England, advice about Eyran's upbringing and future, current business activities which might be viewed as risky. Any other no go areas for his conversation with Jeremy?
He made the call again, but it was Helena, the visiting Mexican maid, telling him that they were away, 'Hup state till later tonight... about nine o’clock. You want I ask them to call you when they get back?'
'No, its okay. I'll set an alarm call early and phone them back.'
He arranged the call for 6.30 am, 10.30 pm California time. One finger tapped at the receiver for a second after putting it back. Fleeting unease. He pushed it as quickly away, told himself it was just his nerves settling back from steeling for possible confrontation with Jeremy.
Dr Martin Holman, at thirty-four the youngest of Oceanside's three head ER consultants, heard the babble and commotion of voices a second before the emergency doors swung open. He was aware of two gurneys heading to different parts of the room, and then his attention fell on the young boy.
'What have we got?'
'Accident victim. Ten years old. Head injuries, but the chest's the most severe: two cracked ribs, possibly a fractured sternum as well.' The paramedic spat the words out breathlessly as they wheeled the gurney rapidly towards a bed.
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